


The War Journal of one Eddard Stark: Lord of Winterfell; Warden of The North; Father; Son and Brother

by Squiggle_Stories



Series: Listen Carefully my Children for this is a Song of Ice and Fire [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squiggle_Stories/pseuds/Squiggle_Stories
Summary: A mixture of Ned's Journal Entries from Robert's Rebellion and a few of Lyanna's mixed in for luck and chapters from the present day as Jon comes to terms with his heritage.AU from about s8e2 purley coz that's when I started writing it and I'm not an Oracle, possible spoilers after ep2, in case I get anything right, but I highly doubt it.





	1. A Gift from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's give this a go

Chapter 1: A Gift from the Past  
Present Day  
He wasn’t a Stark, he was a Targaryen. Sansa, Bran and Arya weren’t his siblings they were his cousins. He wasn’t a bastard but a trueborn heir to the greatest dynasty in Westorisi history. She was his Aunt, she who had spent so much time warming his bed, she who he loved more than anything else in the world. Daenerys Targaryen was his Aunt.  
All this prevented Jon from concentrating on his work, sitting in his solar, and no matter how many times he said it in his head it refused to sink in. Should he call himself Aegon now? No, that was simply ridiculous he had been Jon all his life, that wasn’t going to change. Should he take the throne? By all rights, it was his before Daenerys’ after all the Son of the Firstborn comes before the Secondborn. No, Jon didn’t want the crown that was already placed on his head. Although Jon guessed, like the north, he wouldn’t have much choice in the matter.  
Jon was pulled out of his thoughts by a knock at the door, he looked up, who would want to disturb him now? Everyone in Winterfell wanted little if anything to do with him. “Come in,” he called.  
The door swung open to reveal a short figure silhouetted against the light streaming through the window behind him. As he walked in his features became more defined. He looked no older than most of the other lords in the North, short grey hair, with a rough, short beard, wild eyes that surveyed the room. The clothing he was wearing was almost entirely practical. Light brown leather cuirass with a Crocodile embossed on the front, with light pants with leather pads held on with metal rivets. He carried no sword, only a quiver of arrows and a long dagger strapped to his waist, which he likely could use to outmanoeuvre most swordsmen. This man was Howland Reed if Ned’s description held true.  
Jon rose to meet the newcomer, “Lord Reed I assume,” Jon walked around his desk, holding his hand out to be shaken. Reed took his hand slowly, and shook it almost timidly, the man was clearly not at home here, he likely hadn’t stepped foot in a castle this size since the rebellion.  
“Just Howland, please,” His green eyes had locked onto Jon’s and they immediately filled with sadness, “You look like her you know, Jon,” he smiled and looked around the room again, “Last time I was here was when we brought you back,” he said, running his hand over the desk.  
“I wasn’t informed we were to expect you, Howland,” Jon said apprehensively, this clearly had something to do with his parentage. But Jon wasn’t quite sure if Bran was to be believed Howland was there when he was found.  
“No one was,” Howland looked at him again, “I must leave soon, I would have brought some men, but convincing Crannogmen to leave the neck is like convincing a Donkey it’s a Horse, doable but not easy, we will defend the neck from any force that tries to come North, we always have, but we’re not welcome here.”  
“Is there anything I can get for you, Howland?”  
“No, actually I bear a gift, or two, from your Father,” He placed two leather-bound Journals on the desk, the top one was bound in pale leather, the other much darker, the cover of the top one read, _‘The War Journal of Eddard Stark. 282-283 AC’_ In Ned’s handwriting “It’s Ned’s Journal from the war,” Howland explained “The other is Lyanna’s. Keeping a War journal is a tradition among your house some Bullshit about ensuring that their version of events makes it into writing.”  
“How…” Jon trailed off.  
“Your Father wrote to me before he Rode south, told me to find him as they passed through the neck, I did and he gave me those, told me to give them to Robb should he come asking questions, or to you, especially if you found out some other way,” Howland’s fingers lingered on the Journals almost hesitant to let them go, the last remains of those close to him. “When I received the news about your discovery, I set off immediately, they might provide clarity.”  
“…Thank you, Howland, I don’t know what to say,” Jon managed to get out through the flurry of thoughts passing through his mind, these contained the personal thoughts of his Mother, who he’s never met, and the Man who raised her.  
Howland placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder, “Seeing you were enough payment, she would be proud of you Jon Stark,” He smiled, before turning and leaving the room closing the door behind him.  
Jon sat down in the chair by his hearth picking up the top journal on his way. As he opened the cover two sealed letters fell out. One addressed to him, the other Robb, both names were in Ned’s script with his script on the wax seal on the back. Jon hesitated before placing Robb’s letter to the side. That wasn’t for him, he might read it later, or give it to Sansa to read, but not now there were already too many ghosts floating around these halls.  
Breaking the seal Jon began to read.  
_Jon._  
 _If you are reading this than I likely died before I could tell you about your origins._  
 _As I write this Cat is asleep and I am due to ride to King’s Landing on the morrow. These journals have been locked in my desk since the war, on the way south I will give them to Howland Reed, the only other person who knows the truth, with instructions to give this to you should you learn the truth, or come to him asking after your mother._  
 _In case the latter is the case I will put it into writing here, plain and simple._  
 _I am not your Father. You are the result of the union between Lyanna Stark and Rheagar Targaryen. I will not explain further; these journals tell you all you need to know but know all the lies I have told have been to serve one purpose. To protect you, and thus Lyanna’s legacy._  
 _Know that no-one else knows outside of me and Howland, not even Cat, although I sometimes wonder if your life would be easier if she knew._  
 _Your Mother loved you more than life itself._  
 _You are as much a Son to me than any of my other trueborn sons don’t ever forget that._  
 _Truly_  
 _Your Loving Father_  
 _Eddard_


	2. It all Started with a Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Journal Entries are Likely to be short, but that's just the way of the world

Chapter 2: It all Started with a Raven  
Journal Entry 1  
This is the War Journal of Eddard Stark during the Rebellion of 282 AC against Aerys II Targaryen for the crime of murder and suspension of the Law.  
So, it’s come to this, I sit here writing the first entry to my first war journal. History is Written by the Victors, and this war will be remembered one of two ways, either we will be remembered as inhuman heroes or the worst traitors in Westorosi history, this journal will stand as my account to the unadulterated truth.  
I don’t know who will read this, some ancestor of mine three generations away or some crumbly old maester transcribing this in a hundred years, whoever you are I want you to know I’m scared.  
This morning Jon received a Raven from King’s Landing, declaring the execution of Father and Bran, and requesting that Jon arrest both me and Robert and ship us to King’s Landing for execution.  
Father and Bran are dead.  
To be brutally honest I’m still processing the information. The news of Lyanna’s abduction arrived two weeks ago, followed by the news of Bran’s arrest, from what I hear he had it coming, but to be executed without trial, and to execute Father alongside him, that’s unforgivable. The old laws are clear, the punishment is death, and a King is not above the Law, Aerys must die. But while my adoptive brother and father planed regicide, I’ll be honest and say I simply wanted to retreat north, hide north of the neck, let Robert and Jon fight, and if they lost I would offer them refuge, and watch as the mad fool in King’s Landing throws his army at the marshes.  
Another thought went through my mind, I would find Lyanna, no army needed, just me and Howland, asking in inns and villages, we’d find her, we’d kill him, and return north, the king would be none the wiser. Although that idea is a fool’s errand, Rhaegar is likely protected by Kingsguard, the sword of the morning, and a fear that Lyanna’s disappearance was more complex than I first suspected, if there is more to the story than that portrayed by my brother in his raven, or Father in his letter, then Lyanna would never forgive me.  
No, it has been decided, on the morrow I ride for the Fingers, from there, White Harbour, then Winterfell. I will raise an army and meet Jon in the Riverlands and go to Riverun to try to convince Hoster Tully to join us, I may have to wed my brother’s former bride, Catelyn Tully, I have met her before, she is truly a beauty, no man should complain that he is to wed a bride such as her.  
I am truly scared. If we succeed and Lyanna’s disappearance is as black and white as it seems then I fear her survival might not be guaranteed, but I know Anna, I know that abduction is likely, and last they met she seemed enamoured with Rheagar and much less so with Robert, I fear that if we succeed and the Targaryen’s fall that she may never forgive me.  
The King Must Die.

 


	3. Loving Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Short one, but fuck it, it's late. I'll try to publish a Journal entry at the same time as every present-day chapter, they're considerably easier to write.

Chapter 3: Loving Family  
Present Day  
There was a knock at the door, and before Jon could answer it opened and Sansa strode in. “The men are getting restless and our supplies are disappearing at a rate of knots, I need you to tell me…” she paused, eyes falling on the dark leather Journal still sitting on the desk, her eyes scanning the cover, reading to title, Jon knew exactly what it read _‘The War Journal of Lyanna ~~Stark~~ Targaryen’_ was in a hand that flowed an awful lot more than the one in Jon’s lap the name Stark was neatly crossed out, likely after the wedding, then below that line, in Ned’s hand were the dates _‘282-283 AC’_ Jon could imagine Ned writing the last line before stowing them away so no-one could read them.  
Sansa glanced over at him, concern in her eyes, before settling on the Journal in his lap clearly putting two and two together about who it belonged to. “Where did you find them?”  
Jon looked down at Ned’s Journal, still open in his lap. “They were a gift,” he said before looking up to meet her eyes, “From Ned before you went south. Howland Reed brought them from Greywater Watch.”  
Sansa picked the Journal up from the desk quietly without a word, and sat in the other chair by the fire, holding it in both her hands carefully like it was some sort of ancient relic. “Who’s is that one?” was all she asked.  
“Ned’s” he answered, “You can read it when I’m done if you want.” Jon looked down at the letter addressed to Robb, still perched on the arm of his chair. Slowly he picked it up as if it were made of glass and handed it to her. “Here,” he said “it’s addressed to Robb, but he never got it. It’s from Ned, you should have it.”  
She looked at him square in the eyes, her brows furrowed as she reached out and took the letter, “You speak of him like he wasn’t your Father,”  
Jon sighed, the word of the letter flashing into his head. _‘You are as much a Son to me than any of my other trueborn sons’ _was he really still his Father,__ it’s a big fucking lie to keep for all that time.  
“Jon, he was the man who raised you, he loved you. The man who fathered you rode off to his death before you were even born, Ned Stark was far more of a father to you than Rheagar Targaryen ever was. He sacrificed his honour for you Jon…” she let it sink in “Ned Stark sacrificed his honour for you. That’s like saying an eagle sacrificed its wings” Jon chuckled softly at the metaphor. Sansa reached across the gap and gripped his hand in her own leather gloved hand. “You will always be Jon before Aegon,” her grip tightened, “I want to trust you, Jon, I do, I just…” she paused “I want to push you to be the best you can. I guess I’m conscious that you’re new to this whole thing.” She let go and placed the Journal that was still in her lap on the little table between them. “Look, if you want Daenerys to be your Queen no-one in this castle will stop you. Just show them that Aegon Targaryen is no different to Jon Stark.” She smiled as she stood and smoothed off her dress, “it doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eyes hmm”  
Jon laughed a blush returning to his cheeks, and looked back up at Sansa, she was beaming back at him, clearly pleased with her little joke. “No, that it doesn’t,” he said as she walked to the door.  
“I might take you up on the chance to read that journal.” She said before closing the door and leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.  
Could he still be with Daenerys? She was his Aunt, although being a Targaryen that was likely more incentive to wed. Marring a cousin wasn’t frowned upon in the seven kingdoms, but an Aunt… Jon wasn’t sure.


	4. A love Sick Fool!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing for Lyanna is surprisingly easy. I have about 2 more of these entries stacked up waiting for further along in the story

Chapter 4: A love Sick Fool!  
Journal Entry 2  
Why the Fuck am I Writing this?  
This is the War Journal of Lyanna Stark. I start writing this before a house has so much as raised its banners, but the news of the executions arrived today and if there’s one thing I know, it’s my brothers. There will be war, and while I am not the lord of Winterfell and never will be, I know my thoughts will be long lost and overlooked by the time this war comes to be written down no matter who wins, so I write this Journal in the hope that my account is considered in the official writings, I think it will also help to get my thoughts into order, Mother always said I had too many too often.  
I will not lie and say I didn’t cry. Rheagar held me as I wept, as I begged him to ride east and take his Father’s place, just like he said he would at the tourney, as we lay together before the final bout. But alas I fell in love with a coward and I love him for it. Instead of riding south and east we ride for Dorne.  
_“A new Life Anna,”_ he says, _“Away from the court,”_ he says, _“Away from the trappings of the palace that we both hate,”_  
I will admit that no small part of me wishes to tie him to the bed and ride for King’s Landing myself, and force my sword down the King’s gullet, can't say he’d be missed all that much, hell I might still do that after I’ve finished writing this. But then Rheagar looks at me from the bed, with that stupid grin he wears, and I have this urge to join him that only those stupid stories Mother used to tell can explain.  
You know the ones about a princess in a tower guarded by a vicious dragon, to be saved by a gallant prince. Only this time the roles are reversed. The Gallant Prince is that blubbering fool Baratheon and my dragon only has his roar, and none of the claws and teeth. I tease him sometimes, and all he can say is _“If I had Claws I couldn’t play my harp, and if I had those teeth could you imagine making love?”_ and my heart melts and just want to gather him into my arms, smother him in in kisses and protect him from the Dragons with both those things.  
Gods I’m a lovesick Fool!  
What would Bran say if he could see me now? Probably something sarcastic and then punch Rheagar for good measure. He died for me! I miss him already. Gods I’m going to struggle without you Bran.  
I keep telling myself that I can’t change the past, that it’s not all my fault, that Bran was hot-headed, that Father underestimated the King. But gods I was stupid, I should have told him, I should have told someone!  
Maybe Bran and Father would be alive if I wasn’t such a fucking fool.


	5. History has a Nasty Way of Repeating Itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I liked writing this one. it seems that most of these chapters are gonna be short

Chapter 5: History has a Nasty Way of Repeating Itself.  
Present Day  
_‘Lovesick fool’_ that’s what his mother had called herself.  
Jon couldn’t help but think history was repeating itself as he sat here by Danny’s bed, his Mother’s journal in his lap. He couldn’t sleep so he had pulled up a chair and started to read.  
A dragon without claws or teeth… was that what he was? Was that what his Father was? Jon didn’t know. When compared to Danny, he certainly had no claws, but his hands were still dripping with blood. The blood of the free folk, his brothers in black… Ygritte. Thoughts of the maiden of fire had started creeping into his mind more and more in recent weeks, what would she make of all this? Probably laugh, prod him in the ribs and tell him to get over it.  
_‘you know nothing Jon Snow’_  
Gods if she had been there when they called him King, she likely would have punched little Mormont just for suggesting it then Jon for good measure, or would she have raised Mormont up on her shoulders and proclaimed Jon as King only louder? Jon wasn’t sure he’d have to ask Tormund. Was she his Brandon Stark? Or was she closer to Lyanna?  
Jon was pulled from his thoughts by Danny stirring in bed. She looked at him, Violet eyes peering out from under her eyelids. “You get little wrinkles between your eyebrows when you think too hard,” she said still half asleep, she was smiling with THAT smile. That smile she only wore when they were alone, ear to ear, unhampered happiness, the type of smile that if she had around other people, they’d only look at her weird. “Come back to bed,” she lifted the covers to let him in, the resulting view was entirely a coincidence Jon was sure “you’ll get a cold”  
Jon sighed, and looked down at the book in his hands, closed, between his knees. The spine was worn, as were the edges of the covers, likely from his Mother’s travels with his Father. “What were you thinking about?” came the question he had half expected.  
“You,” he replied, _and Ygritte_ , he added in his head.  
“then come back to bed.” Danny smiled, “it’s cold without you.” Jon highly doubted that Danny slept with enough blankets to ensure that anyone that slept in her bed, like Jon who was used to considerably less fur in his bed, would practically boil to death. Yet Jon re-joined her none the less, he couldn’t help it, she was intoxicating.  
He positioned himself so his chest was flush with her back, snaking his arms around her, pulling her closer and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t leave me, Jon.” Came Danny’s voice from the darkness.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“I’m not stupid Jon, your father is my brother, it's going to be weird.” She paused; Jon could tell she was getting her words in order, so he didn’t interrupt. “If you do decide to leave just… just let me down slowly Jon, I couldn’t take another broken heart,”  
“I’m not going anywhere D,” he replied before his brain caught up with his mouth. No, he wasn’t going anywhere, he was happy right here, right now. _‘Lovesick fool’_ the words bounced around in his head until Danny broke the science, history has a nasty way of repeating itself.  
“D? haven’t heard that one before.” Danny chuckled completely oblivious to his internal monologue. “Where’d that come from,”  
“I have no idea,” Jon admitted “Just slipped out I guess,” he kissed the top of her head again. “you like it?”  
“Hmm, I guess I do,” she pressed herself tighter into his embrace for comfort “Just…”  
“Not in Public,” he finished.  
“Hmm, something like that,” that was the rule. Whatever they wanted in private, but in public, they were strictly professional. Jon was ok with that, it just made him value these moments all the more.  
He truly was a lovesick fool.


	6. Half-baked plans and Hair-brain Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from Ned's journal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so fucking short but I struggled so fuck it

Chapter 6: Half-baked plans and Hair-brain Ideas  
Journal Entry 3  
Ben took being told to stay in Winterfell about as well as expected. I can’t really blame him, he wants to find his sister just as badly as I do, but as of right now he is my Heir and I am going to war, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If anything were to happen to me, he is the sole member of House Stark left to hold the North aside from mother. Leaving her was hard. I told her that if anything were to happen to me, she and Ben must hold the Neck, not venture past it, for the King will bring only Death, and my body will be taken to King’s Landing and buried with all the other traitors. Can’t say it’s the company was particularly poor down there. Daemon Blackfyre, Rhaenyra Targaryen the Half year Queen were buried there. Both legends in their own rights.  
Mother wept as we set off, and Ben could barely contain the tears. Gods I’m going to miss them, and I only just got back. We ride for Moat Calin where we wait for the rest of the army before meeting Jon in the Riverlands.  
I hate Moat Calin, it stinks of war and death, although I guess that’s what we need right now. Howland will meet me there, maybe he knows more about this shit show than I do, Lyanna always liked him. It will be good to see a familiar face, it feels like everyone I interacted with since arriving at Winterfell was a new face, except for the old Maester, Mother and Ben. I can’t shake the feeling that all we have right now are half baked plans and hair-brain ideas when I meet with the lords at Moat Calin we can come up with some semblance of a cohesive plan.  
Gods I miss Brandon, he always had a better tactical mind than I could ever dream for. A good lord looks to his advisers for matters that are beyond him. Gods my advisers are going to be sick of me before this is all over.


	7. The Death of Duty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me, did you ever wonder why the men of the Night's Watch take no wives and father no children?"  
> "No"  
> "So they will not love. Love is the death of duty. If the day should ever come when your lord father was forced to choose between honour on the one hand and those he loves on the other, what would he do?"  
> Maester Aemon to Jon Snow. Game of Thrones Season 1 Episode 9 'Baelor'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the time in the story I'm writing this in is Fucked. In chapter 1 I make out as if the dead are undefeated, ignore that.  
> I called it the Twilight Battle because it's before the Long Night could really get started.   
> I don't know who dies in the battle, I'll just make do by mentioning as few people as I can.

Chapter 7: The Death of Duty.

Present Day

_‘Love is the Death of Duty,’_ Jon had been thinking about Maester Aemon’s words for a while now.  You could make the argument that he had come to Winterfell for Love, the love of his Sister.  Leaving the wall was surely abandoning a duty of his.  However, with Stannis dead and Bolton still sitting smugly they had a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving.  If Jon hadn’t come south to Winterfell, they’d be dead, killed by the Knight King, or Ramsay when he got bored and decided to wipe out the Starks once and for all.

You could make the argument that in bending the knee to Danny, he had sacrificed his duty for Love.  But as usual, it was more complicated than that.  They needed the men; the North alone could not stand against the impending night.  Aside from that, Danny would have come north regardless of whether or not he had bent the knee.  Sure, no army had ever passed through the neck, but Danny had Dragons and Torren Stark had bent the knee before Aegon had even tried to turn his Dragons north.  Cerci had no dragons, her men would be bogged down in the marshes of the Neck and slain by the men who called it home.  In bending the knee Jon had saved thousands of lives, millions if they had not been victorious in the Twilight Battle. 

Now Jon sat in talks with his own lords and Danny.   They were writing up a treaty between the two nations.  _‘The Pact of Ice and Fire’_ was what Tyrion had called it.

Jon and Danny were to wed, _‘Equal in all things, except height’_ they had been assured. In order to solve the inheritance issue they would be crowned together, once with Iron, here in Winterfell, and then again with Gold when they got to King’s Landing, just as they were to have two Weddings, one under the heart tree like the old way dictated and once in a sept in King’s Landing like the Severn Pointed Star demanded.  Under Jon and Danny, the two kingdoms would be united only to be separated after their death. Their Eldest will sit atop the Iron Throne, a Crown of Gold upon his head, to their Second goes Winterfell and a Crown of Iron. The North would be independent as the Lord wanted, ruled by both a Stark and a Targaryen.

It was then that Danny brought up the question of an absence of heirs.

“And if we have none,” She said, a tone of sadness to her voice.

Tyrion sighed, “Then we go up the Family tree until we find one,” he said tracing his finger slowly up the tree spread over the table before landing on a name.  _‘Robert I Baratheon’_ it read.  Robert had taken his claim to the throne from his Grandmother, Rhaelle.

“No,” Daenerys said flatly, “I’ll not give my throne back to that blasted family,”

“Robert is dead,” Davos said softly, yet calling the attention of the room, “as are his heirs.  All except one,” He looked over to the corner of the Solar, Gendry was sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, Arya was sat in his lap, teasing him about something.  Everyone knew what was going on between them behind closed doors, it made Jon blanch just at the thought of his little sister being with anyone in _that_ way, but he couldn’t deny they made a good pair.  The overall challenge came in Arya’s point-blank refusal to wed anyone.

The increased attention didn’t go unnoticed, Arya looked up “What’s with all the funny looks?” her eyebrows knitted together, “you guys finish your stupid treaty yet.”

“Come take a look at this, the both of you,” Jon said, careful not to let his voice betray his torn feelings about what he might have to ask his Sister to do.  He looked at his lords, “Can we have the room?” there was low mumming in the room as the lords and ladies excused themselves leaving just the Starks, Gendry, Jon and Danny.

Arya walked over to the desk, with that cocky swagger that she carried herself with these days.  She had only gotten cockier since the battle, Arya Stark slayer of White Walkers.  Gendry followed her and looked down at the family tree on the desk.

“My apologies milord but I can’t read,” He said, almost ashamed.

“Don’t about it worry Gendry,” Sansa said softly.

“May I ask what it is? It doesn’t look much like a map,” He asked

“It’s a Family tree,” Arya said slowly.  She traced her hand through the branches till she reached her own name.  “it’s sort of a map of a family,” she looked up at Jon and Sansa to ensure she was right, they both nodded in confirmation, Gods Arya had so much more patience for Gendry than anyone else Jon had ever seen her interact with.  She pointed at herself again “This is me,” she traced her hand to left, “That’s Sansa,” then further across, onto another branch entirely, “and Jon,”

Gendry nodded “I think I understand,” he pointed to Ned, “that’s your Father,” then to Rickard, “and his father,”

Everyone around the table nodded, “that’s right,” Sansa said, before pointing to Robert, “That’s your father,”

Gendry laughed softly “That’s the most I’ve ever seen of him,” he chuckled.

Arya traced the bottom line of the tree, paused, her eyebrows knitted together, before tracing up and back down to Robert.  “If he were not dead, he’d be next in line.”

Gendry lent against the table, looking down at his feet, “You want me to be King?” Gendry asked slowly, “I’m no King,” he pointed the tree in anger, “I can’t even read,”

“the crown would only reach you if our union bore no fruit,” Daenerys reassured him.  “But it is true, you are the last _Baratheon_ heir, by rights you have the Stormlands,” _Baratheon_ , Danny said the word with a measure of contempt, one that was easily justified in her mind Jon was sure.

“You want us to marry,” it was less of a question form Arya, more of a statement, her voice laced with disappointment.

“We wouldn’t force you into anything,” Jon said quickly.  “A bastard can inherit in the absence of any other heirs,”

“Tell him, Arya,” Gendry said as he pulled her closer, their hands linked.

She looked at him again, “its none of their business,” she said quietly to him,

“If you don’t I will,”

“Fine.” Jon was sure she muttered something along the lines of _‘stubborn bull’_ under her breath whatever it was Gendry smirked.  Arya looked down at the table, “If I fall pregnant, we’ll wed before the child is born.” she almost sounded reluctant, she jabbed her lover in the ribs, “He doesn’t want a bastard,”  she looked up at Jon, square in the eyes, “But I am not marrying anything just because my big brother sad so.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smiled.

Was love the Death of duty? Jon thought, in Arya’s case it was Hatred that killed Duty, hatred of everything expected of a woman in this world.

Duty surely is a fickle thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hop u Like.  
> this whole death of duty thing is something that I'm going to call back to in the next Journal entry. it's important, I feel like it's going to be a large amount of Jon's storyline going forward, even in the show.


	8. High in the halls of the kings who are gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Entry from Lyanna's Journal.

Chapter 8: High in the halls of the kings who are gone.

Journal Entry 4

_He took me to Summerhall_

The place where he was born.

The place where this all began.

All I could see was the scars of Robert’s Battles here, not three weeks prior.  All Rheagar could see was the Ghosts of those who died here.  His Great-Grandfather. He sang that song, as we walked through the halls. _‘Jenny would dance with her ghosts’_ he would sing.  I feel like he’s the one dancing with the ghosts here.

He was born here, as his family burnt alive because a good King wanted his dragons back.   _Jenny of Oldstones_ , the person the song is about, she reminds me of myself in some way or another.  She was of the stock of the first men, she married the Prince of Dragonstone, driven mad when her husband died because of the madness of his Father. I fear that is how Rheagar will end, I beg him to take me to Ned, _‘He’ll understand’_ I beg him.  We can join with him and drag the Mad King off his throne kicking and screaming and my Prince can take his place, repair the kingdom.  He was having none of it, ‘your brother rose against the crown once what’s to stop him from doing it again,’ he said.  The Son is not guilty of the sins of his Father, I know this, Rheagar knows the Ned know this, alas my pleas fall on deaf ears.  Jenny of Oldstones just another figure of history now, I guess will be soon enough.

I told him, I told him I had his child in my belly.  He kissed me, asked me to marry him, we were married under a Willow tree on the edge grounds. Alas, despite everything I cannot expel thoughts of the ghost that wander the halls here.  Old Nan once told that Aegon V married for love, that that was why he had died, she said that Duncan married Jenny of Oldstones for love and it doomed the family.  Is what we have done here today dissimilar?  I cannot say.

There is one thing that is different between me and Jenny.  The song says, _‘_ _And she never wanted to leave’_ and I for one cannot wait to be rid of this cursed place.

Duty Died here. Today and back then, duty died, and the world burnt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research. Pod's song from S8E2 is about this Jenny of Oldstones, she married Egg's son from the Dunc and Egg series.  
> Egg died at Summerhall as did the titular Dunc. Both the tall and the Prince of Dragonflies.  
> The Story of the prince of Dragonflies and Jenny of Oldstones reminds me of Edward VIII of England, the Duke of Windsor, only with less bad blood and less pissed of monarchs.


	9. Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More!!!!!!

Chapter 9: Legacy.

Present Day

Jon just sat at his desk, looking at it.  Sansa had had it mad. A leather-bound journal with a little Direwolf stamped into one corner and a three headed dragon in the other, in the centre was written _“The War Journal of Jon Stark ‘the White Wolf’ King of the North and the First men/Aegon Targaryen Sixth of his Name King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the realm”_ in a rather large box for the title.

He had been reading his Mother’s Journal, her legacy, and now he started his own.  They marched for Moat Calin on the Morrow, Jon should be spending time with his family, and those who he loved, not writing a fucking book.  But here he was regardless, History would almost certainly remember him as Aegon Targaryen and not Jon Stark, the history books were written in the South, they wouldn’t remember the North, they never do.  But the North remembers, and this Journal ensures that fact.  

So, Jon wrote.  He wrote of his love for his newly wedded wife. He wrote of how Sansa had Crowned him with Iron while his lords watched, how she moved to Danny, and placed an Iron circlet on her head and named her Queen.  He wrote of how he discovered his ancestry, he wrote of the Alliance, and what it meant for his heirs.  He wrote of his reluctance for this role, how he hoped to do some good from atop the throne.  He wrote of his hopes for a Child, how he hoped to be around in a way his own parents could never be.

By the time he looked up from his work, Danny was standing there leaning against the door frame, hands clasped in front of her.  Dressed in a grey dress with winter roses embroidered over her left shoulder, with a little Iron Direwolf pin on her right, her hair was done up in those braids she so likes, her violet eyes shone like amethysts in the light of the room.  The both now had two names, one that spoke to their place as King and Queen of the North, and another that spoke to their Targaryen ancestors, she had chosen the name Lyarra Stark, after Jon’s own Grandmother.  A gesture that eased the minds of many lords in attendance at the coronation

“How long have you been standing there?” He asked.

“Not Long,” her voice was soft and undemanding as it so often was in private.  She walked in and sat on her arm of Jon’s chair, looking down at his work. “What are you Writing,” Jon closed the book to show her the title, she laughed softly, “Both names?” she questioned.

“Why Not both?” was all the response he could think of.

“It’s a northern tradition,” she said, “No-one keeps a War Journal in the south,”

Jon looked up at his Queen “Sam wrote to me from the citadel the other day,” he placed his quill down, “he said he found a copy of Cregan Stark’s war Journal from The Dance Of the Dragons, forgotten, crumbling in a corner of the great library.”  He placed his arms around Danny’s waist pulling her into his lap, so her legs dangled over the arm of the chair. “He was instrumental in ensuring the reign of Aegon III was stable, yet history remembers it only as ‘The hour of the wolf’ notable only as the only time, before Ned, that a Stark served as Hand of the King.”  He kissed her forehead, “The history books never remember the North, I will in all likelihood be remembered as Aegon, I would rather be Jon, rather be remembered as of the North, but I don’t know what that means to the people who write this stuff down.”

Danny lent her head into his neck, “You won’t be forgotten Jon,” she assured him.

Jon chuckled, a phase Ned always said whenever he taught him something obscure popping into his head, “The North Remembers,” He said quietly, this Journal was testament to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Name Change.  
> Monarchs Change their names all the time when they ascend to the throne it's perfectly normal, Queen Elizabeth's own father was called Albert before he was King George and if they have two crowns why shouldn't they have two names to make it easier for their subjects to relate to them.  
> Not sure if its the same in Ice and Fire but the story borrows heavily from English history so I'm rolling with it.


	10. A visitor in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again it's short but fuck it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By my estimations, this roughly marks the halfway point. There are only so many meaningful Journal Entries that you can write for a year-long war. and I plan on stopping when it is over, ish, there are one or two entries I have planned so don't take this as gospel

Chapter 10: A visitor in the night

Journal Entry 5

Last night I had a visitor and I remain confused.  Late last night as I was finishing my Journal entry, I was visited by one of the last people I would expect.  Oswell Whent, the Kingsguard, a fucking legend in his own right, and why did he come to see his sworn enemy you may ask, he brought tidings from Anna.

Lyanna said she’s happy.

She married the Prince.

She carries his child.

I knew the abduction was not as Black and White as it first seemed.

Robert cannot know, I dread to think what he’ll do.  He’ll probably kill the child, and if I don’t try to protect it, well that’s kinslaying in all but name.  I’ll not have any harm come to it.  Robert will probably kill me for not gutting Whent when he first walked into my tent.  He’ll probably go home, all he’s fighting for will be lost, and if I’m completely honest, I don’t think I could win without him, and the King still must die, even if it is to put Rheagar on the throne.  No Robert must not know.

When this is all over, I will ride to her, maybe in Targaryen chains, maybe carrying the news of the King’s defeat.  If I can I will ensure they have safe passage out of Westeros he is my Good Brother I can not have him executed.  If Rheagar dies I will take Anna home, avoid the King and allow her to raise the child in piece.  But Robert must not know, he cannot know.

Luckily the child shouldn’t be alone, Catelyn is with child as is the Queen not to mention Rheagar’s former wife, so whichever way this war turns the child should not grow up alone.

I dread the day that the Martells find out about this.  They have given so much already, most of the bodies that we handed over to the enemy after the Battle of the Bells were Dornish, to find their golden daughter has been set aside will destroy them.

In shielding this information from him I am likely committing treason in his eyes, but Blood is thicker than wine and the pack must survive.

Robert cannot Know.


	11. Ghosts of the Past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck. this is my second attempt at this, but you'll never know that because draft No.1 was so shit I killed it in its cradle. the final product is quite a bit longer than any of the other chapters I've written for this book, maybe something more comparable to Secrets, for those who have read that old failed attempt at a story of mine.

Chapter 11: Ghosts Of the Past  
Present Day  
Moat Calin was a grim place it was true, these towers had likely stood in some form or another, for longer than half the castles in the north. They had arrived here the night before last, sent out foraging parties and set up camp. There were still some hosts coming from the North’s eastern shore, but other than that most of the men who would be coming were here.  
Jon could almost see Ned standing at the head of this table, in this exact spot, preparing to march to the Stony Sept to meet with Robert. He could see Robb standing here, Greywind at his side. And now here Jon stood, his Direwolf sprawled in front of the fireplace as Howland relayed the small pieces of information his people had gleaned from spying out of the marshes and the small number of men who had taken one of their little rafts down the trident. The reports were only confirmed by Lord Royce’s scouting parties from the Vale. Cerci was in Harrenhall, or at least her army was.  
However, Jon was only listening with half an ear, his mind occupied with those who came before. The men around him argued and debated troop movements, the defences of Cities like Lannisport, they debated the ease at which lords of the Reach could be swayed to their side, the leadership of the individual Kingdoms, only 4 of the seven had so much as an heir to hold court in the respective capital. Paxter Redwyne seemingly had inherited most of the responsibilities of the Reach from his mother-in-law and was mobilizing forces to secure his own borders, having not declared, either way, the assumption was he’d follow the Targaryen forces, especially with the Black Fleet being such a prominent threat to his seat. Arianne Martell had seized her birthright in Sunspear and stubbornly refused to budge from her assessorial home, but there was no other word from Dorne. Storm’s End lay all but abandoned the Stormlands were in a state of flux tempers were high, many lords had followed Stannis to the Battle of the Blackwater, and then to the North, and subsequently had died. All that was left in the Kingdom were aged lords, who were too young to go with Stannis but had sent their Children, child lords too young to fight, Second Sons who had never been expected to run a house, and Widowed Ladies, Morning Mothers, and Inexperienced Daughters who had been left alone their entire families wiped out.  
War  
It had destroyed the seven kingdoms in almost no time at all. The war council was a sombre affair, most Northern Lords were happy to sit it out and go where they were told, leaving just Lords Reed and Manderley and Lady Mormont. Both Jon and Danny’s Hands were in attendance, alongside Theon, and Danny’s councillors, alongside Yonn Royce, some Knights of the Vake and a smattering of River Lords. Jamie Lannister sat near at the opposite end of the table to Jon, admittedly his presence put some of the men in the room on edge, but Jon feared it a necessary evil. Aside from all them, there was just Jon, Danny Arya and Jon’s new squire, Edric Dayne in the room.  
Beric Dondarrion's former squire had heart, Jon would give him that. He had been all but dragged by Jamie Lannister to Jon’s feet after Beric had died in the Twilight Battle, with stories of how the boy had slain the wight of his former master. The Lord of Casterly Rock had suggested the boy enter Jon’s service, later telling Jon privately that Edric had refused a knighthood because he said he felt like he was not skilled enough. The boy was humble this much was true, he was a skilled horseman, and a good swordsman but he had no designs to take up his ancestral blade. Edric would be a Knight before this war was done that was for sure.  
Jon wasn’t sure why he was so on edge, was it that he was leaving the North undefended, he needn’t worry, the Free Folk remained in Winterfell alongside Sansa and Bran, the men of the Neck would escort them through the neck and then work with the token force to be left at Moat Calin and Flint’s Finger to secure the Neck should the war turn against them.  
If it wasn’t the safety of his home what was it? The pressure? He had performed under more in Winterfell. No, it was the past that put Jon on edge. The last time a Northern host had come south they had all but been wiped out at the Twins. The time before had resulted in the death of Jon’s own Father, and the coldblooded murder of his two siblings, that host had limped back across the neck, their winter rose had died and Ned Stark had shouldered the burden of caring for her child. Both forces had camped here. If curses did exist, this would be one of the most cursed places in Westeros.  
But Curses didn’t exist, and Jon’s eyes fell to the map in front of him. They could throw their forces at Harrenhall for a thousand days and not penetrate the walls. Lord Reed quietly suggested they wait in Moat Calin for Cerci to throw her force against the fortifications that had stood longer than her own house, but the mere thought put Danny on edge, waiting would give them chance to fortify the abandoned keeps along the Trident, completely dislodging them would take years.  
Lord Royce suggested they circle around, taking the rest Westerlands and the Reach before moving through the Stomlands. This put Lord Reed on edge, it would leave no fighting force between Harrenhall and the Neck. Yonn suggested the leave more men at Moat Calin, but even if the Reach Lords were as agreeable as the suspected, and Gendry could rally the Stormlands, the Westerlands was the most heavily fortified of the Severn Kingdoms, they needed as many men as possible to take them, and the Tully’s could not be counted upon to provide troops, the Red Wedding had reignited old wounds between the minor houses, and Edmure was barely holding onto his seat in Riverrun, and likely wouldn’t be open to getting involved in another war.  
Theon reported that Lannisport lay undefended from the sea, a thought that was both relieving and concerning to Jon, without its Fleet there to protect it, Lannisport was a soft target, but there was a certain contentment in knowing where your enemy’s navy dropped anchor, and if it wasn’t in Lannisport it could be anywhere, Jon shuddered to think of what Cerci had planned for the Red Fleet. Regardless Jon sent riders for Flint’s Finger and Widow’s Watch with orders to keep watch for it and the Iron Fleet, should it move from King’s Landing.  
Varys reported that Lord Redwyne could not be counted on for Naval support, Lord Paxter was too busy consolidating power in the Reach for that, they would have to stick with Yara’s small fleet, and hope she can secure more ships during her stay in the Iron Islands.  
All this left two choices, the first was a pitched battle, their forces would ride for the twins, and goad Cerci’s forces into engaging them in an open field, or the second is a siege of Harrenhall, or if Danny got her way, Harrenhall would be melted to the ground as it had when Aegon first laid siege to it all those years ago.  
However, Jon warned that Cerci’s ballistae turned the Dragons into more of a liability than much else. Scouts reported there was a ballista in each tower, and more on the walls and on the wooden palisades that Tywin had erected during his stint in the ruins. Finding them all would take time, learning to dismantle them so that they couldn’t be rebuilt would take more, a small force could maybe do it, but it would take days, and they would have to fight for every corridor they entered.  
No, luring them out was the best course of action, the ballistae could be easily dismantled inside a field camp by a small insurgency force before any battle, and the dragons were far more effective on an open field.  
Jon laughed to himself, would the dragons be more effective or just quicker on an open field he wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO  
> as you might expect, this story is written in Word. Once I'm finished I'll save it as a PDF and put it up somewhere so people can read it, with all the fancy formatting that I've put in out of habit from writing reports for uni, I might also include notes on my thought processes, but I haven't gotten any yet so don't hold out hope  
> Also, I got plenty of ideas for Edric Dayne, he's not in the show, but whatever


	12. The soldier above all others prays for peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from a quote from Douglas MacArthur:  
> "The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."  
> thought it appropriate

Chapter 12: The soldier above all others prays for peace

Journal Entry 6

My good brother is dead.  He now lies there broken in the bog that the Trident has become since the army’s clashed here.  He would’ve been a good king too, perhaps better than Robert, but I shall never know.

I ride for King’s Landing at Sunrise, but a small part of me is drawn to go to the Isle of Faces, on the way south, pay my respects.  I find myself praying more and more as of late, more than ever before.  And I’m not praying for Justice, not for the wellbeing of my Wife and new-born, no I pray for peace, I pray for the times we knew in the Eyrie, for my sister’s safe delivery, she should be due soon.

Next comes King’s Landing, when I ride through the gates tomorrow, Robert will not be at my side, neither will Jon, they both picked up injuries in the battle so it falls to me to take the city, I don’t foresee much resistance, Rheagar emptied the city of fighting men to face us here.  I will almost welcome the solitude, Robert had become angrier of late, Jon is more distant, War changes people.  I will arrest the King for the crimes of which he is guilty, I’ll hide Rheagar’s former Wife and children away before Robert’s rage reaches the innocent.  I will sit the iron throne and pass out Justice to those who have wronged, I will swing the sword myself.  Robert will not be happy about being robbed of the kill, but he does not deserve it, he has not lost anyone.  He will go after Ellia, after the children, but they will be gone already, sent south with Howland, sent to Lyanna.  We’ll go to Sunspear, the Prince will protect his sister, niece and nephew, and I will arrange passage to White Harbour and Lyanna will be safe.  

That is all I want, for Lyanna to be safe, and I fear she will not be safe with Robert.

God’s she’s going to hate me for the role I’ve played in Rheagar’s death, she may wish to sail for Essos, and I will not stop her, as long as she is safe.  It will be treachery, I’d be a traitor in every sense of the word, I would be breaking my oath, a crime punished by death in the North, but for Kinslaying, for that death is not enough, your name is struck from the history books, never to be uttered again and that is not a crime I am willing to commit, not for Robert, not for anyone.

Robert must Not know, he must not find out what I have done until I leave the city, he will surely follow me, he can throw himself at Moat Calin like a thousand southern armies before, but he will not take the North, and I fear, nay, I know a Dornish man would say the same.   _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._

For now, all I can hope for is peace, but if all goes to plan, peace is a long way off, yet I fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The general premise for this Journal Entry has been floating around in my head for a while. the sort of bittersweet aspect of it, with Ned's plans and shit just sort of came around as I was writing. "The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."  
> Next Journal Entry will be courtesy of Lyanna, then we get my best attempt at Angry Ned.  
> Thanks for reading


End file.
